


One of Us

by bluegrass



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Peter Parker, BAMF Wade Wilson, Because Deadpool, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Full Shift Werewolves, Hale Family Feels, Hale Peter Parker, Hurt Derek, Kate Argent Dies, M/M, POV Multiple, Pack Bonding, Progressing Timeline, Protective Wade Wilson, Sharing a Bed, Temporary Character Comas, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, Warning: Kate Argent, Werewolf Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27527554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluegrass/pseuds/bluegrass
Summary: Derek had met Uncle Peter's mate six months after The Fire.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Pre-Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski - Relationship
Comments: 11
Kudos: 98





	1. Peter Parker-Hale (I)

Peter had met his mate, the love and moon of his life, in New York. Much to his future amusement, the meeting hadn’t made the best first impressions because Peter had found Wade bleeding and dismembered behind the apartment bought by his sister and Alpha as a congratulation for getting into Columbia University after working his ass off for months for the grades and curriculum to even muster up the courage to apply for the entrance in the first place.

Talia could actually care less if he attended university at all, to be honest, but she was nevertheless equally invested because Peter was and he would forever be extremely glad for her unconditional support. Their large age gap meant she acted more as his mother more often than not, but Peter never minded because Talia was simply amazing beyond words could describe.

Between raising her growing brood of children and leading the Pack, Talia never sacrificed Peter’s time with her in favour of something else and always respected his decisions – of which included keeping the respected Hale name a secret and letting Peter use their mother’s maiden name for matters that Peter wanted to know fully it had been his efforts that paid off.

Their bond of Alpha and Beta was strong, as sister and brother even more so. She was his rock, and Peter would be lying if he said a part of the reason he picked the hardest university to get into in New York was because he wished to make her proud.

The apartment wasn’t anything too luxurious or big or special because Peter hadn’t wanted to be reminded about how empty the space would be without his pack. He’d chosen something almost humble, very importantly simple and cozy and a place he could picture transforming into a den he’d hasten than dread returning to.

His course was expected to end in 3 years, maybe more if he chose to pursue a further education in his degree of Biochemistry and Molecular Biophysics. The search had taken months due to his consideration to his sensitive werewolf ears and nose. Talia had been beside him the whole while, patient and helpful and just as, if not more enthusiastic in her side-project than Peter was and he’d finally settled on a discrete place nearly 7 miles from campus.

The walk may’ve seemed insane for any other first-year freshman, but Peter was a born werewolf so he could deal with the additional burn off of energy. Plus, it’d be helpful when the full moon inched closer as well. Peter had taken one look at the quiet neighbourhood hidden in a cleverly private crevice of the busy and bustling city of New York, inhaled the scent of the woods-cum-park nearby the local Pack used for their runs, and fell in love with the way the evening sun fell over the brick walls creeping with vines enveloped in heart-shaped leaves.

The rent was suspiciously cheap. Talia and Peter had talked to the landlord about it and the landlord had insisted it was because the apartment was too far from actual civilisation to convince anyone to stay for the long haul. As the Hales were anything but lacking in wealth and ever-growing investments, Talia had bought two whole units for Peter. One for him and the other just in case his wanted to knock down a wall for extra space. Pack was always growing, she said, and whoever her precious little brother welcomed, so would she.

Peter disliked lying, and he may’ve cried a bit hearing her warm declaration. The move in was quick and efficient, courtesy to the fact Peter’s wardrobe was borderline pitiful compared to even his six-year-old niece, Laura. He had plenty of books, though, comic books and the odd how-to-for-dummies manuals and textbooks as thick as the heels Talia used to seduce her mate when they met at some sketchy bar Peter’s sister still refused to reveal the name of. Besides that, Peter was practically your everyday college student; what with the dinosaur laptop he had an emotional attachment to and a diet his werewolf metabolism barely agreed with.

Most of Peter’s money went to a rainbow-coloured collection of Vans sneakers and high speed internet, okay? And it was an investment connected to his private accounts so no one was judging. Except for Talia, because she was old enough that she complained about the internet because it was what people her age did. Werewolves also liked being barefoot, she grumbled, but Derek was notably a chubby cub so it was probably the very swollen feet from her pregnancy talking.

New York was… interesting. Superheroes and villains were the norm around here and it seemed like a new one was starred in the news as commonly as yet another fresh advertisement from McDonalds. For a good moment, Peter had almost considered becoming a superhero himself. He had the strength for it, the training, experience, and protective instinct that came with defending Beacon Hills.

The idea was appealing for all of 3 minutes before he discarded it. Superhumans were still relatively new, and open acceptance was obviously miles away. Peter’s little impulse could result in exposing the supernatural and subsequently, negatively impact the Pack. Any form of harm to the Pack was unacceptable – it was non-negotiable, because Pack was everything to a werewolf. Talia would’ve laughed herself silly, anyway, and then Laura would imitate her mother because cubs her age were wired like that. The double humiliation sent shivers down Peter’s spine just imagining it.

Therefore, Peter focused on his studies and got a part-time job at a bookstore not too far away from home. The walking distance was 30 minutes if Peter wasn’t trying. Ten if he was hungrily harrying back to make dinner. His shifts lasted across Fridays to Sundays, from 12 in the noon to 6 in the evening whereupon his schedule was free from classes.

Dusk’s light was turning am dark rich amber when he stumbled upon Wade quite literally. The route Peter had used to get back from work in a hurry involved a second entrance made rather private as it was narrowed by the apartment’s wall and a wide-planked fence. It was where the large garbage disposal bin was placed; Peter never used it unless he had to because of the stench.

Having a werewolf’s healing factor, Peter was long desensitised to the scent of blood and the sight of gore. He was not however, immune to the surprise of having a corpse – at first glance – simply laid upon his doorstep like a morbid offering. Talia was a strong supporter for the freedom of expression in her Pack, so Peter was not above making a kind of choked-off scream that would’ve entertained baby Derek whose current obsession was with the tortured sounds foxes made.

Dressed in a distinguishable black and red outfit, skin tight and probably made from spandex and leather unique to superheroes, Peter took in the very bloody, very muscular figure and his first thought was: _It wasn’t me –_ _I didn’t do it._

 _I have an alibi,_ was Peter’s second thought. _I should tell my Alpha,_ was his third. Unfortunately, neither were particularly appropriate for the situation at hand but something had stayed Peter’s actions. The right thing to do would be to report his sightings to the cops, maybe ring up whoever it was the superheroes answered to let them know he found one of their lot very dead by his door. The extent of Peter’s compassion and sympathy would be to leave a flower if they invited him to the funeral and maybe lament at the loss of a life.

He had crouched down instead. His hands were on his knees and underneath the scent of freshly spilled blood, death, and gunpowder, was something irresistible. It was the stubborn bittersweet cling of healing and life, sandalwood and smoke. Peter did not salivate… much, but he reckoned if he was an Alpha, his fangs would’ve dropped immediately for a Bite. The body twitched in a concerning manner, its flesh squelching in a grotesque show of re-growing new limbs and stitching up the large wounds that had torn through its sorry state.

There were scars, so many scars on skin where he could see. If Peter did not drag this miraculously not-dead man into his den, his instinct howled that he would definitely regret it.

 _Werewolves, man._ Peter sighed into the chilly autumn air as a cloud of mist lingered in his breath. Easily slugging the man over his shoulder, Peter wondered what the internal fuss was all about. Not to be overtly creepy or anything, but the man smelled ridiculously good, and his healing factor was actually the best he’s ever had the opportunity to observe, albeit for what short time it was worth. 

Effortlessly, Peter carefully carried the body on his back and stepped into the elevator feeling like a stereotypical cartoon robber with a stolen bag of diamonds. Thankfully, the initial owner didn’t believe in installing cameras in the lifts because of the small sample of residents under his management. Small blessings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you aren't familiar with my works, I have a slight obsession with making crossovers because I can. Peter is a common name and I like (Spidey)Deadpool and I hate Kate Argent so that was my entire thought process while writing this basically.
> 
> I plan on having a few chapters per character POV to make things interesting. Please Kudos and comment if you liked this and to fuel my muse while she's still here. It's been a while since I've last written because of real life stuff.


	2. Peter Parker-Hale (II)

Not to be a total jerk to someone who looked like they’d been through a lot in the past several hours, but Peter’s couch was unsalvageable now. Although on the bright side, the body’s – and that was a generous regard for the torso lacking an entire right arm and half a left, missing two quarter a left leg and some toes on his right – bleeding had fortunately staunched from a constant flow into a sluggish stream that dripped at a hypnotising pace.

Whoever it was Peter had brought into his home, it was with startling clarity that he may not be a hero at all. Because Peter had glimpsed at the many little knives and guns the unconscious man wore on his person, and it was excessive to say the least.

To allow his morals a sense of dignity, Peter had to first mention how having a skin tight suit clinging on one’s exposed nerves was not a pleasant feeling; Peter was being generous and considerate to help the guy peel of his disgusting outfit only to be thanked by transforming his living room into a small weapons store.

Bombs in the stranger’s pockets and pants and shoes, on top of endless packets of lube and cold hard cash by the hundreds; more knives, and Peter wondered if maybe the set of katanas hidden in the shadows earlier weren’t a hallucination. He’d left them outside earlier, and he was wondering if he should head down again to pick them up.

No ID either, but Peter guessed the pat down wasn’t a total disaster. The man was very bulky, and Peter may’ve ogled a tad longer than any decent human being would towards a defenseless stranger. If Peter had thought werewolves were physically gifted in regards to body sculpture, clearly he’d been missing out.

Need he mention the enticing scent that was doing miracles in preventing Peter from tossing the body out and leaving him to deal with whatever trouble it was Peter shouldn’t be involving himself in? A part of him felt it in his bones, Excellent Healing Factor Dude was trouble and danger combined. He smelled indescribably attractive though, and Peter cursed his werewolf senses and insatiable curiosity.

Resisting the urge to rub himself all over the man, Peter settled on distracting himself by observing at the masked face instead. It was admittedly eerie, seeing the whites at the eye area stare blankly at the ceiling, as still as a doll. The stranger’s mask was the one thing he refrained from peeling off because _privacy and consent, dude._ People who wore these sort of stuff also valued their secret identities, right? Plus, it gave Peter plausible deniability.

The Hale family lawyers would’ve been so proud.

Peter looked and looked, then looked some more. Maybe sniffed the guy just as much if not more. Healing Factor Dude’s heartbeat was slow and steady, resembling deep sleep. His breathing was fine too. The recently regrown limbs had smooth, pinkish skin and was an obvious size smaller. Peter wanted to touch it and physically feel the fascinating healing factor down to the bone. Even werewolves couldn’t regenerate to this extent; theirs were limited to internal organs and external wounds. This guy was practically an axolotl on steroids.

Healing Factor Dude’s stomach suddenly growled, and it then occurred to Peter that healing was hard work. When he woke up, the man would probably be viciously dehydrated on top of starving. Peter got up from where he was kneeling beside the crustily drying couch and headed towards the kitchen to grab a quick meal and several bottles of orange juice he stored by habit because Laura and Derek absorbed it like two limitless capacity sponges when they visited, which was pretty often.

The open doorway that led to the place where the magic happened was painted in a dark maroon that could make an Alpha’s eyes look scarlet. the colour was almost earthly, and Peter had chosen in with his home in Beacon Hills in mind. The walls were painted with the dark silhouettes of forests, pops of brightness coming from the framed paintings of Aunt May who enjoyed anything artful during her free time.

The kitchen was large enough that Peter had to knock down an entire wall to fit an additional dining table to the room. The Pack visited whenever they could, and though things had been busy the past months, Peter at least found comfort in the idea that his personal den was prepared to welcome family and friends whenever the opportunity presented itself. His friend count wasn’t the highest at the moment, but he was a homely soul – what could he say? Soft-hearted and special kind of trusting even among werewolves who were more emotionally open than most.

Peter took pride in his wit and cunning when it counted despite that. His sister said it made him good Beta because of it. Peter tried to see the good in most people, often prone to give second chances as long as any attempts at harm were directed to his person. People mistook his merciful nature as a weakness. The number of shredded corpses he and Talia had personally buried throughout Beacon Hills Preserve ought to remind many that Peter was actually quite the opposite to enemies who involved innocents beloved to the Hales or the Hales themselves.

Alas, Talia said it was his hair and eyes, the thick and soft fluffy brown that framed a pair of warm hazels. Apparently, Peter looked more like a puppy in human form than his shift ever would; nobody with a background involving murder at some point could take Peter seriously if their senses were busy catering to Peter’s every move and smile and deceptively gentle tone.

For one, Peter’s _tone_ was neither deceptive nor gentle. He simply spoke a little less loudly because raising his voice was unnecessary if people listened. Visitors, regardless of their hitch on the post of morality, also became more amenable when he talked softer, appealed to the egos that barely fit through the door and the individuals who understood proper courtesy when it was executed properly because contrary to what hunters and fairy tales liked to spread, his kind were not actually uncivilised animals.

Peter’s personality was pretty much set since the beginning. He lacked the Hale’s natural boisterousness, and it was probably the genetic lottery going awry somewhere. Derek seemed to show signs of being the same – the cub’s disposition and early interests was everything a werewolf wasn’t. He followed Peter more than either of his parents, Talia reported fondly, and Peter was looking forward to geeking out to Batman comics with Derek in the future.

Wit and cunning: these were the two things that kept Peter from visibly acting upon the knowledge that his guest was waking up. Healing Factor Dude’s heartbeat remained a steady sound, but it was growing stronger and quicker and soon the rhythmic beats were skipping after Peter heard the man’s breath hitch (possibly) from realising that instead of feeling like the victim of a serial killing in a dumpster equivalent, he was instead in a stranger’s home and on his very comfortable couch.

Peter searched for days for a perfect couch, alright? And it was sadly ruined in one poorly planned decision.

He pretended to bustle about behind the kitchen isle, facing the open fridge as though he was searching for ingredients, carefully angling his body so that he may subtly spy on his guest’s next course of action. The man’s upper half shot up at full alert, tense and eerily still, a concoction of actions that implied paranoia or hyper vigilance to an extent.

The chilly air misting over his face was good cover, if Peter didn’t say so himself, because he – and over his dead body would Talia ever hear of this – liked the lowly growled “What the fuck,” rasped underneath the stranger’s breath a bit too much for comfort. Werewolf hearing was a double-edged sword; Peter felt the vibrations down to his bones and it was turning his knees to embarrassing jelly.

Gods, the hairs at the back of his neck were standing. And just the thought of necks, which led to scenting and rubbing and _scenting and rubbing himself all over the stranger_ got Peter hot in ten seconds flat. Out of sheer mortification, Peter determined the stranger exempted from _what the fuck_ rights. Peter should be the one saying the phrase under his breath. It was like being in pre-rut just hearing the guy speak. That could not be okay.

 _What the –_ “Fuck,” Peter hissed, and hopefully he had saved his ass from being suspicious in a way bound to be taken badly. Whether by a stroke of genius or pure coincidence, he found himself breathing out a subtle sigh of relief when his body accidentally knocked over the milk carton placed on the shelf attached to the door of the fridge with a genuinely clumsy elbow.

The key was to keep moving after that. Peter’s default state was usually far from careless. It was easy to act from there; he smoothly transitioned the small error and continued to grab ingredients for a sandwich to starting up the coffee machine like he didn’t just make a fool of himself in front of the really hot guy – especially in scent, but that alone made a sufficient criterion for werewolves.

Whether it went noticed or not, Peter took out the mugs used exclusively for guests he genuinely liked regardless if they were a bona fide murderer. He would be a hypocrite to judge, honestly, and Peter wanted to hear his guest’s story first. If the man was a mindless criminal, Peter ought to do the world a favour and off him first before the Pack found out and got themselves involved. Talia’s protectiveness was appreciated and frustrating in equal measure sometimes.

As good as naked from neck down, the man appeared rather startled going by the hitch in his breath. Peter kept a constant monitor on his heartbeat and he was impressed; Healing Factor Dude seemed to have experience in dealing with unfamiliar and surprising circumstances, because the man calmed down in half a minute at most, and Peter had meanwhile guessed the man may be conscious of his body in some way.

The information away for later when he finally regained the privacy of his den for peaceful contemplation. Barely an hour after he picked up a man from the alleyway like an abandoned cat in a cardboard box and Peter was already planning tactics to woo the guy. Stupid werewolf instincts. It was like his IQ decreased proportionate to his wolf’s unexplainable instincts.

Peter tilted his head back and rolled his eyes, pretending to loosen up his body. In reality he murmured so quietly even a were-person would struggle to hear him, “Think with your dick later, Hale.”

Back to paying Healing Factor Dude so much attention Laura would be jealous, then. Tense from head to toe, Peter noted how the man’s every movement was still so terribly controlled and deadly. He was graceful too, a beautiful example of a predator used to hunts going wrong and then dragging himself out of trouble with nary a glance back. He was competent and dangerous: a protector, a provider, and – _later._

The stranger first priority was to sweep up his weapons laid about the coffee table before the couch. He played with the blades between his thick fingers and Peter’s wolf howled, obnoxiously pleased with itself, and Peter’s senses dialled up a rank without his control as though it couldn’t even bear to miss a single huff of air exhaled by the man.

Seriously, what was it? Scent couldn’t actually be everything in a person. His wolf may think so, but Peter was smarter than that. No point in denying and delaying things further now. It was embarrassingly obvious and he was quickly recognising the signs. Immediate attraction, increased libido, increased responsiveness. Peter’s wolf had found a staggering potential for _mate,_ and it was terrifying.

He was so distracted by the revelation that he missed the anchoring heartbeat inch closer towards him. Step by step, as silent as a cat despite his bulk. Peter would expect for the man to take up space like his he commanded it, but his mate proved himself a step superior by demonstrating that stealth was part of his repertoire too; he was versatile, an excellent trait for a werewolf whose role changed constantly according to the needs of the Pack.

At that point, Peter was falling hard and fast and his mate’s first words made it so easy to love him. Healing Factor Dude had managed to sneak up to him without Peter’s notice. His scent was overpowering at the distance they stood. Peter was trapped in his mate’s arms, back tingling at the seeping heat. His throat was pressed with the cold of a blade, the side of his neck unknowingly rubbed by his mate’s textured wrist.

_Scent marked._

“Your family is blessed,” Peter’s mate said faux cheerily. “Good genes. Won the lottery. Love it. Ten out of ten for the model looks y’all have breeding on in here.” Not a single skip in his heartbeat: truth.

Peter’s living room was unashamedly decorated with portraits of his Pack. He was proud of them and he let his love flourish by taking photographs of them whenever he could. Even though it was skin-shallow, his mate seemed to approve of his Pack – noticed them, commented on them, _appreciated them_ – on the dot, and Peter had to pull a full moon's worth of control to resist so fucking hard from slicing his neck open on his mate’s knife so that he could turn around and mount him on the goddamned wooden floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't plan anything I write and it shows.
> 
> Whether Wade gets to keep his underwear is up to your imagination, haha. If you liked this, don't forget to leave a Kudos and comment! I love reading what you think, and they also fuel my motivation to write :D


	3. Peter Parker-Hale (III)

It was a short-lived argument, but Peter was rather proud he won against his dick before his mate caught him in a compromising position. Otherwise, he would’ve risked ruining whatever good grace he may’ve brushed up by offering his mate sustenance and shelter without thought whether the man had realised to significance of such a thing or not.

An ordinary person having a hard on while his life was being threatened understandably rang alarm bells in most situations, and just imagining explaining himself made Peter flush from head to shoulders. The first-meet stories for the wedding would be something he’d never live down from his family.

That was unacceptable; what was _also_ unacceptable was the fact Peter was already planning a wedding when his mate’s name remained unknown – ‘Be gone, lust demon,’ he reprimanded himself bitterly in his head, hoping to Mother Moon herself that his mate wouldn’t be too quick to deem his head missing a screw on the get go. Rejection may set his mental state into partial insanity, and gods forbid he turned feral; he was away from home in New York and consequently, his anchor, and the combination was hazardous to a wolf denied its chosen partner.

Peter willed himself to appear as harmless as possible. The notion that he was anything but could wait for later, when his mate’s weariness wasn’t tuned up so high he might accidentally slip and witness Peter’s unique genetic preposition first hand. Pack discussed these sort of matters first, and though Peter was no Alpha, he understood the importance of at least informing Talia when he wished to let his mate in the know of their kin.

With this in mind, Peter went lax in his mate’s awkward half-hold. The wrist at the base of his neck stiffened further, and Peter was slowly but surely learning to get used to the shift of the scars there in addition to the underlying scent of puss and dried blood that had little to do with how his mate probably hadn’t showered for over 48 hours.

He’d took quick note of it earlier, but his mate’s body was riddled in sores and scabs despite his unparalleled healing factor. His elbows and the back of his knees were furthermore cracked painfully in dryness that expanded unpredictably across its respective areas. It was perhaps the only thing thus far that Peter found dissatisfying about his mate: knowing he was probably saddled in pain twenty-four-seven.

Peter didn’t like smelling the scent of pain on his mate. The burningly sour scent made him feel sad and inadequate, as though he’d failed in some way. It hurt when he hurt, never mind how control was out of his hands and that whatnot. Peter’s wolf was an overachiever in many things – taking blame being one of those. He breathed in deep, eyes going lidded as his head fell forward to expose the back of his neck. Obviously, during their courting, Peter was going to do everything in his power to reduce his mate’s pain.

But first: “You’re awake, I was gonna get you something to eat and drink,” Peter said soothingly, going for nonchalant but missing by a mile. He refused to be embarrassed, though. Having a mate was boasted among werewolves, and while Peter wasn’t while hadn’t exactly been yearning or mourning for someone he wasn’t actively searching for, he did feel a swell of pride and hopefulness of having to grow old with. Pride, for the idea of a future that could be perfect; hopefulness, because _what if he was disliked regardless?_

The grip on the handle of the knife loosened, but it didn’t take the feeling of danger away whatsoever. Peter was unafraid nevertheless, even well aware his mate knew it and for a moment, Peter actually felt bad for the respect that was so quickly and easily bought. The man was either too used to having the targets of his weapon cower at the mere sight of something sharp, or he was very, very good at what he did to the point the reaction was well-deserved.

Being the smitten individual he was, Peter had planned on waiting for his mate to gather his wits about him, only to be pleasantly surprised when his mate responded in a snap beat: “Well, as much as I appreciate watching your cute bubble butt wiggle all domestic for me, I’m gonna need more details on what I don’t already know, sweet pea.”

_Not now, Peter junior._

“My name’s Peter. Peter Parker-Hale. It’s nice to meet you, Healing Factor Dude. I didn’t know what to call you so I’ve been calling that in my head this whole time.”

Peter’s mate stepped closer, testing, his hot breath at Peter’s ear sent tingles spreading throughout his entire body. Who cared whether it smelled like morning breath? Certainly not him, because Peter’s wolf was too busy mooning over the pleasant sensation and how nicely he fitted against his mate like a long lost puzzle piece. _Stay here, safe here,_ the mate-stupid thing rumbled contentedly.

“Deadpool,” his mate said tentatively after a pregnant pause. Peter nodded and flashed a small, toothy smile. “I’ve got soda and orange juice. It’d be awesome if you could choose the one you like, Deadpool.” An alias, not his actual name, but it was good enough for the time being. He was the stubbornest wolf in Beacon Hills. A real name was inevitable, it had to be.

The man shifted and drew himself away cautiously. Deadpool’s posture was a weird kind of coil, a snake prepared to strike at a moment’s notice, and he wielded his knife like a shield. He cocked his head pensively but his following words were said in a tone that kept its light-hearted cheer. Peter was hard pressed to believe even a single syllable was real.

“Why, aren’t you a fearless little thang, Petey. A major turn on for poor ole’me. Fuck, has my dick grown in yet? It’s always the last and…” Deadpool trailed off when Peter’s shoulders shook before suddenly bursting out in laughter loud. Gods, Aunt May would adore this man.

Feeling brave, Peter lifted a slow hand to lightly tap Deadpool on his inner-wrist, the same one so intimately close to his throat. Strangely enough, something about his touch seemed to flick a switch in Deadpool, causing him to withdraw like he’d just been burned. It had been done gracefully, however, movement so seamless and controlled that Peter might’ve discounted the reaction were it not for his ability to read Deadpool’s distressed scent and hear the way he swallowed nervously.

His mate’s mouth continued to run, an endearing record for the books. “Now I ain’t a GQ model underneath this mask like your family, but the things I’d have to do to get your pretty self all over this hot disaster–”

“You paid an arm and leg earlier, Pool,” Peter grinned cheekily – definitely because he was not suspicious in character and eager to get in his mate’s blood red boxers at all – “and if it were up to me, you wouldn’t even need to make it to the cashier for some. So, juice or soda?”

Deadpool openly gaped before answering, “… Juice,” then continuing almost meekly, “in a box and grape flavoured.” The man hadn’t batted an eye at his request, so unless one of their memory was just that crappy, Peter clearly remembered offering orange juice. Fingers crossed, but his mate was probably a little shit and it was with little surprise that Peter found the fondness that flowed from him overwhelming, entirely easy to fit inside this new world where he knew he would very soon carve out a space for this man like he’d been waiting to do so all his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but after this I'm going to be starting with Wade's POV! 
> 
> I hoped you enjoyed this, and if you did, don't forget to leave a Kudos and comment. They're seriously the best.


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